


Bloodlust

by LittleDesertFlower



Category: Carry On - Rainbow Rowell
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-06
Updated: 2016-07-06
Packaged: 2019-01-22 16:05:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,695
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12485484
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LittleDesertFlower/pseuds/LittleDesertFlower
Summary: (find me at @fic_flower)





	Bloodlust

**Author's Note:**

> I tried making the changing POVs work, I really did.  
> It's hard xD, but these guys deserve the effort

**SIMON**

    “Your phone's buzzing.” I hear Penny say. Then I open my eyes and I see she's looking at me like she'd actually be able to spell the thing shut if I don't take it and put an end to the notification ring that's waken her up.

   I close my eyes again momentarily –

   “Simon!” she says, shaking me this time. When she's made sure I've actually processed the information, she leaves and slams the door behind her. My table clock says it's 4 am, so I can't really blame her, although Penny's always taking it out on furniture.

   4 fucking am. I'm not a person at 4 am. I can barely even concentrate on what my eyes see, I'm still half-asleep.

   I swipe left, exhale, and press the bloody thing to my ear. The caller's ID's written in tiny letters that at this hour look entirely blurred.

   “Simon?” he says, like he doesn't believe I'm actually there.

   “Baz?” I say. Then it occurs to me that if he's calling so late – no, if he's _calling_ at all, maybe he's –

   “There's so much _blood.”_

**BAZ**

I couldn't get another roommate after eight fucking years living with Simon Snow bed-to-bed. It's too exhausting. It's even more exhausting to look back on it. Because I would kill for it to happen again if it happening again meant I could relive it with Snow, but Snow's at the other end of London, and even if he was able to come down here and study something, I don't think any of us would be down for the task. It'd be like Watford all over again, from the _beginning_ , if you get my meaning. I can't do that again.

   But I know I can't share with someone else either. Snow insisted on it, him the perpetually accompanied bastard who believes people function by socializing, and I said no. I can't risk being seen in the magickal community, let alone among Normals. It would be much more likely for a Normal to figure it out than one of us, because they're desperate for one single proof that they're not alone in the world, and they believe anything that resembles it.

   I have my own room at the dorm. It smells like detergent even though I've thoroughly tried to make it smell like literally anything else. There's space for two beds, but there's only one; mine. I plan on stashing the shelves with books, see if they take up enough room to make this place look like someone is living in it.

   I miss Snow. He never read. And he filled all the extra space.

 

   I never call. It's an even more desperate move than late-night texting. And I've had enough “desperate” for a lifetime. But tonight I just call him.

   As a matter of fact, I don't even think it through. I can't even make it into my own room because my hands won't stop shaking and I can't get the key into the lock, but I manage to find him in my short contact list, locating his name (Simon) through the tears, and also manage to pull off a half-decent voice.

   “Simon?” I choke out.

   “Baz?” he says, like he can't believe me – like he can't believe _this,_ and he still doesn't even know what “this” means.

   I know it's rock bottom for me when I whine, like I'm wounded, like I need somebody more than air (and I probably do), like I'm done:

   “There's so much _blood_.” And a body down the corridor with a stab wound that's bleeding and seems like it won't ever stop. I don't even know if whoever it is is still alive. I honestly don't care. I just want to gorge it down. Like a beast. Snow once said I'm not a monster, but I undeniably am a vampire, and if you look up “vampire”, I'm sure somewhere in the definition the word “monster” comes up.

   I don't hear Snow breathe for a while. I hear me sob muffledly, my back against the door to my room. If I tried to stand, I wouldn't even make it three steps. I'm an earthquake.

   “Where are you?”

   “Dorm corridor.” I say. I breathe heavily, but at least I don't sound like a fucking dying dog anymore. “Someone's bleeding.”

   “Get out of there.” As if I hadn't tried. As if I could get up and just run.

   I know what this is, this shaking, this not being able to move, this struggle. What I want most in the world right now is to drain whoever's bleeding ten meters away from me. And if I've made it ten meters, that means I still have it in me to act strong, but soon even the air will smell like red.

   “I can't.”

   He sounds as if he was guiding someone through an operation:

   “Light a fire.” he says. “I'm coming.”

   Then he hangs up. And I swear I can hear his wings bat even from here.

 

**SIMON**

    Penny looks at me like I’m off my mind after I tell her. I almost agree with her.

   “You _can’t_ go, Simon. You don’t even know where he is!” she says, hair on a messy I-just-got-out-of-bed bun, looking like I just pulled her from bed – which I did.

   “It’s Baz, Penelope.” I say, and grab the first wearable thing I see, put it on over the wings and all. Penny stretches her ring finger and spells two holes in the fabric so that the wings may flex freely. “He’s at school.”

  She crosses her arms impatiently, then uncrosses them to pull my shirt down.

   “That’s exactly my point, you don’t know the directions.”

   I shake my head. “I don’t need them.” Then I go for the doorknob.

   “I’d feel a lot better if I could just tag along.” she says. I turn to face her again and end up being the receiving end of her concerned look. “You’re not even wearing shoes, Simon, for Christ’s sake.”

   I stare back at her.

   “Penny.” I say. “It’s _Baz_.”

   “Okay, just –” she says. “Just call me or … or text me when you’re settled.”

   “Go back to sleep.” I tell her, then make my way out.

   “As if, Snow.” she says, and personally pushes me outside.

  

**BAZ**

    _He’s flying here, Basilton. He’ll be here shortly, he’ll –_

I make a feeble attempt at calming myself down. He _is_ coming, to me, here. But he won’t actively fix anything, mainly because you can’t just mend what’s wrong with me.

   What’s wrong with me is that I have fangs and an ancient thirst, and that sometimes that thirst – _putting it at bay –_ paralyzes me. If I didn’t hate what I am, I would have jumped on whoever’s bleeding an hour ago and drunk my fill, and then probably would have gone to bed like nothing had happened.

   Nothing _has_ happened. Yet. But every beat of that worn-out heart means I’m one step closer to giving in. How wrong would it be if I just waited till they died and then drank the dead blood? (It’s like drinking period blood, it nourishes, but it’s still dead, so it doesn’t involve actual murdering.) Would it make me less or more of a monster?

   I shouldn’t even be this thirsty. I drank three hours ago. Not even this much blood should be able to do this to me.

   _Snow’s coming…_

He’s coming and I’m sitting drunkenly on the floor and can’t even feel the wall behind me. I guess the thirst can get so strong the only way out is to numb it, and the rest of the world with it.

     Eventually, the light dies.

   Eventually, whoever’s bleeding stops breathing. And I wonder how much longer I can go without licking their blood from the carpet and sinking my teeth into their flesh to suck whatever blood remains inside. I wonder if I’ve always been this insane… and I find I’m not surprised the answer’s yes.

   So I crawl and I tremble like a newborn and I dip my hands on the puddle of blood and then put my fingers into my mouth one by one to suck them clean.

   And that’s how Snow finds me, sprawled over a corpse and licking my hands like a cat licks its paws. And I want nothing more right now than to drop dead. I guess I’ve always wanted that.

 

**SIMON**

    It’s dark, so at first I can’t make out the light switch, but then I just slam my hand over the wall until I find it.

   I hear Baz before I see him. He sees me in the dark, and he knows I’ll see him as soon as I hit that switch. I hit it anyway.

   With Baz, it’s either “anyway” or “not at all”.

   With Baz, it’s either running to him to help or staying aside to watch. And I’ve had eight years of watching.

   He shakes like a leaf when he’s thirsty. He gets on his knees and stops supporting his own weight, so his head falls forward and his hair fades his face. He looks like a wounded animal. I saw him once before with Agatha – that’s how I found out he is a vampire – and I knew as soon as he called me tonight that I’d see him again. And see him, I do.

   I slowly kneel by him and the body and take Baz’s bloody hands in mine. He’s trembling so hard he makes me shake too.

   “Simon … Simon … Simon.” he whines in a voice that barely sounds like his own. He lets his head fall to my shoulder. I don’t know how to contain or help Baz. The last time he felt like shit, I kissed him and saved him. But this time, if there’s any suicidal junk, I don’t think I can put it aside with one kiss. And now that I have no magic, I can’t even clean up the blood.

   “What’d you do, Baz?” I mutter, and adjust so I can hold him properly. He’s cold at touch, and his snot drools down my shirt.

   “Blood… So much blood.” he mumbles.

   And I end up pushing – pushing magic. I’m not a magician anymore, but magic’s still there, and right now it’s tagging at me to let it through, so I let it. And it _goes_ through, just like in the old times, to Baz, to fill the blank spaces.

   I watch him regain some presence in my arms like a balloon being filled with air. He stops sobbing, though not crying. I let him breathe once, twice, then hold his head in my hands and smile, but I have no reason to. I smile and I lean in and kiss him – saliva, snot, and all. Baz…

   It’s like kissing a drooling dog – a dog you’ve loved for eight years but didn’t know you did. I always like kissing Baz, even like this, it’s like kissing tears, it’s like kissing the world, having it in your arms and just … knowing it’s the safest place it can be. I don’t want to let go.

   “I love you, I love you, I love you.” I mutter, and I smile. It’s the only thing coming out of me. The only thought I don’t have to process, because it’s already there, I know for a fact it’s the truth without needing to revise it first.

   “Simon …” he starts. And for Baz, that’s as good as saying he loves me back. “Simon, just … get me out of here … please. I don’t want to be here, I want to go _home._ ”

   He can’t mean Hampshire – the magic returned and his family is back there, but Baz never felt at home there – nor Penny’s and my apartment (he spends most days there with us, but he doesn’t feel part of it, part of the experience). Then it hits me, out of nowhere – because it’s just not logical at all.

   There’s only ever been one home for Baz: Watford.

**SIMON**

   I had to use my blood to open the room’s door. Penny’s mom didn’t assign it to any of the first-years, maybe Penny talked to her about Baz, about how sometimes he needs to be back here to remember he belongs somewhere.

   Anyway, it’s still our room. It still smells like Baz and the school soap, and there’s dust on the blankets but the beds can still be slept in.

   He’s gotten inside the covers of his bed, he’s lying on his side so that I can’t see his face. At least the bloodlust’s over, and all we have to deal with now is the aftermath – and Baz is overly dramatic, but I don’t mind.

   I sit on the mattress right by him, and the bed creaks.

   “You okay?”

   “What’d you think?” he grunts to the wall.

   I wait a little before diving in again.

   “You seem better now.”

   “At least I’m not thirsting, right?”

   “Yeah, that’s something.”

   “No, it’s not, Snow.”

   “You didn’t kill that girl, Baz. You just …”

   “I should’ve called for help.”

   “I think it’s enough you didn’t feed on her.”

   “You _think_? What would you have done, Simon, if it had been you instead of me? You would’ve called for an ambulance or at least _told_ somebody. You would’ve done something.”

   “If you _didn’t_ do something it’s because all you _could_ do was stay away. That’s doing something.”

   “Let’s just not talk about this.”

   “Well, I think we should, don’t you? Something’s clearly wrong and it’s not just this, is it?”

   “I’m a vampire, Snow, that’s what’s wrong.”

   “I know, but I mean –”

   “I know what you mean.” he interrupts coldly.

   “Well, then, what’s wrong?” I spit out all the options I didn’t know I’d come up with, that I didn’t know could affect and probably have affected Baz. “Is it school? Your parents? Me?”

   I can hear the panicky pitch in my own voice. It’s weak and it’s lame, and I’m sure I would never in my life allow anyone but Baz (maybe) to hear that.

   “It’s _me,_ Snow.” he finally says. “And school, and my father.”

   “What else?” I tell him in what I hope is a soothing tone.

   “I don’t want to talk about it.”

   “I do.”

   “No one cares what you want, Snow.”

   “This is clearly not about me.”

   “No, it’s not. It’s about everything else _but_ you. You’re the one thing that’s not wrong, and you think that because of that you might be all that’s necessary to hold me together, but you’re not.”

   His words say «argument’s over», they say «life has been shitty and I’ve held on to the fact that you’re there but I haven’t actually asked for your help because I feel so fucked up I fear not even that would fix me; I don’t think I can be fixed, or … if I should».

   I unapologetically get under the covers next to him and spoon him, softly resting my chin on the skin of the back of his neck. He smells like blood… like day-old blood. But he also smells like Baz. I wrap my tail around his waist and sigh.

   “It’s been a rough couple of months, hasn’t it?” I mutter.

   “Yes.”

   “Have you been feeding?”

   “I wouldn’t _be_ here if I hadn’t.” he snorts.

   I try again.

   “Is your dad holding you back? You haven’t really visited since –”

   “My father is always holding me back.”

   That brings me back… Baz hasn’t actually admitted it out loud, but for what I’ve been able to pick up, he’s had to walk on eggshells around his dad all his life, afraid his being gay as fuck would somehow put an end to his dad’s sort of benevolent behavior towards him.

   “Does he know?” I ask, already knowing the answer to that.

   “He’d disown me.” Baz spits out.

   “He wouldn’t.” I smile. “Daphne would murder him.” And I giggle. And for a brief moment, I think he’s smiled too, the image of his stepmom murdering his dad somehow cheering him up slightly, maybe because he knows how atypical that would be of Daphne.

   Then he lets out all the air he’s been holding and says:

   “I just … don’t want to think about this. I shouldn’t have called you tonight.”

   “I’m glad you did.” I say.

   “You’re dumb.”

   I kiss the back of his neck and put an arm around him.

   “You’re crazy to even think I wouldn’t want to know about these things.”

  

**BAZ**

   “And how is school?” Snow asks after a while.

   I’m tempted to turn around and frown directly at him.

   “You’re seriously asking me that?” I say instead.

   “Okay, next question: would you move in with Penny and me?”

   Now I do turn around.

   “What?”

   He looks at me like a wounded puppy, like the first time I half-tried to kill him and he couldn’t believe I was so adamant about it – all things considered, I don’t think I wanted to end him, I probably just wanted to fight him to see if he would end me. _Seriously, Snow._

   “My room’s big enough for a king-size bed,” he explains. “and we could do with an actually organized mind around.”

   “You would … be okay with that?”

   “Yeah, you could take a break from school.” He is beaming. Simon fucking Snow is beaming at the thought of me leaving the school to move in with him and … heal, I suppose. And I have to admit that if there’s any healing place in this world, even if it wouldn’t work on me, that just has got to be wherever Snow is. “Besides, Penny studies out most of the time, we could have the house to ourselves. We could take care of each other.”

   It takes all the energy I still have not to pout and say something sarcastic. I want to; it’s easier to fight whichever crappy feeling that’s crawling inside me with humor than face it and convey it. But I don’t. I look into Snow’s eyes and rub his hand on his right arm.

   “I would… I would actually love that.” I tell him.

   “So you’re coming home with me?” he says, incapable of believing it.

   “Yes … Yes, I am.”

   “I’ve kinda missed you, Pitch.” He grins, and kisses my cheek meekly.

   “It _has_ been a rough couple of months…” I admit, pulling him closer, tugging at one of his red wings as I do – they’re strong and soft, and he loves when I pet them.

   “You could have called, I would have helped…” He kisses me full on the mouth – it probably tastes like blood. I feebly try to push him away.

   “You can’t just,” I mumble as coherently as I can. “… kiss” he traces the outline of my clavicle with his lips, his head half-hidden beneath the sheets. “... everything” he slips further under the covers, his hands on my hips, and kisses my belly button. “… away.”

   “It usually works.” He smirks against my skin.

   “Well,” I say. “you’re good with your mouth … and your hands …”

   Slowly, he comes back up and rests his head on my pillow, but his hands continue rubbing my stomach, continue drawing circles that each time aim lower and lower.

   “I’ve missed you, Baz.” Snow practically says against my lips. Then he kisses me. Then he tugs at the hem of my jeans, and somewhere deep inside I feel the same way I felt when he shared his magic with me and made the entire universe surround us. I don’t feel struck by lightning, I feel like … like I just stepped into the light. His light.

   He’s zipping down my jeans when I find his hand and put mine on it. He stops immediately until I press it harder against me and guide it lower.

   “Simon?” I mutter.

   “Yeah?”

   Snow pulls the jeans down.

   “Part of the reason we’re here tonight is that I’ve missed you too.” I confess in a low voice, my eyes half-closed.

   “I know. I mean, I figured. You’ve been looking pretty miserable for a while, I just didn’t want to … upset you by saying anything.”

   “I was miserable.”

   He kisses me again, he’s all mouth on me.

   “Better now?” he says.

   “Better.” I say. I kiss him. I feel his hand robbing me of my pants. “You’re … you’re magical.”

He laughs softly into my mouth. “And to think you wanted me dead.”

   “I didn’t want you dead. I just …” I breathe deeply. “wanted you.”

  “And to think you would’ve gone your entire life without saying anything…” Snow says.

   “You deserve better than me…” I say. I don’t want to think of what he’s doing to me right now, of where his fingers are touching, of how he’s all gentle and soft and how he’s warming me up…

   “The thing is,” he says and he smiles and he looks at me like he’s been looking at me for eight years, and I wonder how on earth I couldn’t realize what that look meant, how it meant he felt the same. “I’m sure I don’t want anyone else.”

   “Simon…” I barely make a sound. If I say anything a little louder than that, the entire building will hear me moan.    
   “Yeah?”

   “I love you.”

   He continues touching me, and I ask myself if he means anything explicitly sexual or if he’s just … being cute, being Simon. Any way it goes, I don’t have enough blood left in my body to get anything up tonight, and yet I’m still over the moon, I’m still blind with love for this blue-eyed virgin.

   “Feeling’s sort of mutual.” he says.

   “How mutual?” I tease.

   “This much …” he kisses me again and again and again, and I’m sure I can still feel the touch of his lips against me even after he’s pulled away. “Will it do?” he asks, scared, maybe, that it won’t. But it does.

   It will do. It always sort of has.

   And maybe I can’t climax tonight, but maybe Simon Snow can.

   “Will this?” I say, and I find the hem of his pajama pants, and like a hacker, I get in. And like I’ve felt for years on end, I don’t want out.

 


End file.
